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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: Fiction
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dangerous to travel than we knew. The others hushed him at once.”
“They’re afraid to speak about disease.” He sighed, thinking how far the western world had slid in the last three centuries; had there been a report of an outbreak of Great Pox in the ninth century of the City, the Romans would have instituted a quarantine, offered prayers to the gods, and sent physicians from the Legions to survey the problem. But that was four hundred years ago, and those times were gone.
“The Great Pox is terrifying; you cannot blame them for being afraid,” Rogerian observed. “If it has broken out, that would explain why the hostel is nearly empty. The weather cannot be the entire cause, nor the bandits in the mountains.” He looked toward the monks’ dormitory across the courtyard, his faded-blue eyes narrowing. “I will try to learn more, come morning.”
“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain. “In the meantime, where shall I rest?”
“I have set up two chests of your native earth in the last cell on the second corridor. I doubt the men-at-arms will venture there.” Rogerian muttered a curse as the wind blew the little flame of the oil lamp out. “We had best get within,” he advised.
Sanct’ Germain made a sign of agreement, but did not move. “Rogerian,” he said in the tongue of his long-vanished people, “have you noticed anyone watching us?’
“Do you mean as the monks have done, or something more covert?” Rogerian had opened the door, but half-closed it in an effort to hold in what little heat the building contained.
“I have had the sensation of being monitored since I went into the stable.” He did his best to shrug off this unwelcome intuition; he glanced over his shoulder as Rogerian swung the door for him, and then he was gone into the dark corridor and on his way to the earthfilled chests that served as his bed.
Text of a report from the monastery of Archangeli near Roncesvalles, entrusted to lay-brother Terio for delivery to Gardingio Theudis on the 28 th day of January, 622; never delivered.
To the Gardingio Theudis, the greetings of the monks of Archangeli on this most dreadful day, with the prayers that you will be spared what God has seen fit to visit upon us for our impiety and failings.
As soon as the weather clears, this message will be carried to you with all dispatch. I have already chosen who is to carry it, and with God’s Grace, he shall reach you before the end of February, for I have told him this work is urgent, and he must travel from sunrise to sunset on every day the sun can be seen in the sky, for this tomus is of importance not only to us, at this monastery, but to you and your family.
It is the sad duty of this monastery to inform you that your cousin, the Primor Gaericed, has been called to the Throne of God to answer for his life. He has the company of many of the Fraters of this monas tery to comfort him, as the Great Pox has claimed many lives here, but none so much valued as that of your cousin, for whom those of us who remain alive pray night and day.
There is no way that we, as religious, may abandon our place here, and so we will remain, to honor our Primor and our vows. Should the Great Pox spare us, we must hope that God will not let us die of hunger, for there is so much death about that no one ventures to bring food to the monastery; it being the depths of winter, we have only our onions and turnips and cheese to feed us. God has laid His Hand upon us
heavily, and it is for us to bear the burden rather than be cast down by it, for in such wise, we fail our God as much as if we had placed the Crown of Thorns upon His Head. We will submit to God’s Will, and His Mercy, however it may be shown, and praise His Name.
Your cousin is ready for burial, and we have sung his funeral prayers, but he cannot yet be buried, nor can fourteen other monks, as the ground is yet too hard. We have disposed all the dead in their winding sheets and placed them
“They’re afraid to speak about disease.” He sighed, thinking how far the western world had slid in the last three centuries; had there been a report of an outbreak of Great Pox in the ninth century of the City, the Romans would have instituted a quarantine, offered prayers to the gods, and sent physicians from the Legions to survey the problem. But that was four hundred years ago, and those times were gone.
“The Great Pox is terrifying; you cannot blame them for being afraid,” Rogerian observed. “If it has broken out, that would explain why the hostel is nearly empty. The weather cannot be the entire cause, nor the bandits in the mountains.” He looked toward the monks’ dormitory across the courtyard, his faded-blue eyes narrowing. “I will try to learn more, come morning.”
“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain. “In the meantime, where shall I rest?”
“I have set up two chests of your native earth in the last cell on the second corridor. I doubt the men-at-arms will venture there.” Rogerian muttered a curse as the wind blew the little flame of the oil lamp out. “We had best get within,” he advised.
Sanct’ Germain made a sign of agreement, but did not move. “Rogerian,” he said in the tongue of his long-vanished people, “have you noticed anyone watching us?’
“Do you mean as the monks have done, or something more covert?” Rogerian had opened the door, but half-closed it in an effort to hold in what little heat the building contained.
“I have had the sensation of being monitored since I went into the stable.” He did his best to shrug off this unwelcome intuition; he glanced over his shoulder as Rogerian swung the door for him, and then he was gone into the dark corridor and on his way to the earthfilled chests that served as his bed.
Text of a report from the monastery of Archangeli near Roncesvalles, entrusted to lay-brother Terio for delivery to Gardingio Theudis on the 28 th day of January, 622; never delivered.
To the Gardingio Theudis, the greetings of the monks of Archangeli on this most dreadful day, with the prayers that you will be spared what God has seen fit to visit upon us for our impiety and failings.
As soon as the weather clears, this message will be carried to you with all dispatch. I have already chosen who is to carry it, and with God’s Grace, he shall reach you before the end of February, for I have told him this work is urgent, and he must travel from sunrise to sunset on every day the sun can be seen in the sky, for this tomus is of importance not only to us, at this monastery, but to you and your family.
It is the sad duty of this monastery to inform you that your cousin, the Primor Gaericed, has been called to the Throne of God to answer for his life. He has the company of many of the Fraters of this monas tery to comfort him, as the Great Pox has claimed many lives here, but none so much valued as that of your cousin, for whom those of us who remain alive pray night and day.
There is no way that we, as religious, may abandon our place here, and so we will remain, to honor our Primor and our vows. Should the Great Pox spare us, we must hope that God will not let us die of hunger, for there is so much death about that no one ventures to bring food to the monastery; it being the depths of winter, we have only our onions and turnips and cheese to feed us. God has laid His Hand upon us
heavily, and it is for us to bear the burden rather than be cast down by it, for in such wise, we fail our God as much as if we had placed the Crown of Thorns upon His Head. We will submit to God’s Will, and His Mercy, however it may be shown, and praise His Name.
Your cousin is ready for burial, and we have sung his funeral prayers, but he cannot yet be buried, nor can fourteen other monks, as the ground is yet too hard. We have disposed all the dead in their winding sheets and placed them
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